


Soul of the Sea, Soil of the Earth

by spirrum



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2015-06-24
Packaged: 2018-04-05 23:51:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4199793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spirrum/pseuds/spirrum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Can you grow plants on boats?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soul of the Sea, Soil of the Earth

They think her innocent – sweet and entirely too impressionable, but the truth of the matter is that Merrill lets them. It doesn’t make much of a different one way or another, and it is not so far from the truth that she is being deceitful. She’s still Varric’s daisy, and she’ll never quite get used to all the intricacies of human figures of speech (especially the dirty ones), but she has long years on her back as everyone else.

They mean no harm of course, and Merrill does not mind, not really. It’s good, even, having some things that are hers to know and hers alone. With her wide bird’s eyes, no one considers that there are as many dark, sensual things in her thoughts as in anyone else’s.

And no one thinks twice when her gaze wanders – lingers on the swell of wide hips, and those long, long seafarer’s legs that go on forever. 

Isabela notices of course, for her eyes are quick and clever, catching thieves of stolen glances, and Merrill is never quick enough to look away. But the pirate only smiles, that cat’s wicked grin, and when she walks away Merrill thinks she exaggerates the sway of her hips just a little. 

But it’s a slow dance, this one that they’re doing, of lingering looks across rooms and tables, a hand on her shoulder in passing, and a shadow at her back in battle, her blind spot covered and the gleam of half-moon daggers in her peripheral. 

She doesn’t need to pretend at being flustered, for she very often is, the tips of her ears burning and her cheeks rosy beneath her vallaslin. But some things…some things she pretends, with a growing ease that Varric would either be proud or entirely disappointed is due his own expertise in the art. And so when Isabela pushes a glass towards her and asks her if she thinks she can handle it, Merrill finds a sheepish grin, and curls pale fingers around the glass with an uncertainty that is entirely feigned. A smudge of blood sits by her thumb, but the pirate only offers it a glance. She has blood on her hands, too.

She tries a sip, and then downs the glass – fakes a grimace, and receives a pleased smile for her efforts. She doesn’t tell her she’s known stronger; that the Hanged Man’s finest tastes like puddle-water compared to what is served around the campfire amongst her clan. Because this particular smile of Isabela’s is a rare treasure, and no one’s smiled at Merrill like that in a long time. And so she pretends at being the pretty, shiny jewel – new to the world and its ways, like a fine sloop on its maiden voyage. There is no room for green and growing things in Kirkwall, or in the heart of the woman with saltwater in her soul. So Merrill tries to be the thing that grows – that flourishes even in dark corners, roots burrowing deep in the hard soil, to make their home between cracks in the stone. And this is her home, and these people at its heart, they are hers, too. She thinks she might well live her life here, though there are dark things aloft – she can see it in Hawke’s furrowed brow, the hard press of her mouth. 

And so she thinks of the sea; wonders if she’d like it, the vast openness, nothing but water and the horizon in the distance. So much blue, and no green, not even of her own make. Could she manage?

A glance at the woman across the table, the blue of her kerchief and the heavy links of her gold choker, the sea and the setting sun, and Merrill thinks she could.

“Can you grow plants on boats?”

Isabela looks at her, eyes like copper coins in the torchlight. And in that moment it doesn’t matter that things aren’t looking good – that she might have to uproot the life she’s made for herself between these stone walls and gallows.

“I bet you could, kitten,” she says then, that rare smile tugging at the corners of her full mouth as she looks into the crashing amber waves at the bottom of her glass with the wistfulness of an old lover. And Merrill’s heart leaps, a jubilant dance in her chest. She does not feign the sincerity of her reaction, and Isabela laughs – that throaty laugh that comes from deep in her chest. 

“I bet you could.


End file.
